


The Party Line

by cleromancy



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 06:37:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleromancy/pseuds/cleromancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hey, Birdboy, what're you wearing?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Party Line

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Kat, Anna, Heej, Sasha, and everyone else who had to listen to me whine.

Slow nights in Gotham make for incredibly frustrating patrols. It’s been four hours and Tim hasn’t stopped a single crime, noticed any suspicious activity, or helped any little old ladies cross the street. The police scanners are quiet, and none of the other vigilantes have called for backup. Tim’s patrol is essentially pointless. Finally, dissatisfied and discouraged, he’s giving up and taking a break. Now he’s propped up on the ledge of an old building that used to be a church, the kind of place neighborhood kids get dared to stay in overnight. 

On nights like these, the feeling of helplessness is hard to fight. It's probably messed up to wish there were more crime, just so Tim could have something to do. Just so he could feel useful. Tim slouches a little, dangling his legs off the side of the building. There's an old gargoyle perched on the wall next to him; not one of the ones tourist pamphlets paste on glossy pages boasting about “historic architecture,” but a decayed and crumbling hunk of granite, decrepit from decades in Gotham. They don't all stand up to wear and tear and come out stronger for it. Tim sits back, taking a companionable moment with the statue.

He’s startled out of his self-indulgent moment of personally identifying with inanimate objects when his comm hisses to life in his ear. It jerks him to attention, a long-ingrained reaction triggering adrenaline and mild paranoia, a tiny voice in the back of Tim’s mind shrieking the worst possible scenarios. He’s cursing himself for wishing something would happen; he would choose boredom over bad news any day.

“Red Robin here,” Tim says, careful not to sound like his heart’s in his throat. 

First there’s nothing but heavy breathing—and that’s sending electric worry through him, too, intensifying the panic—but then a familiar voice crackles down the line, amused and throaty. “Hey, Birdboy, what’re you wearing?” 

It takes a second to recognize the voice, but when it registers, it’s unmistakable. " _Jason_?" Tim frowns. He’s annoyed, and a little jealous that Jason’s apparently got nothing better to do than bother him. Jason’s laughing, presumably at his own joke. “Jason, did you hack into this frequency just to _prank call_ me?"

“Naw, baby, I thought of you and wanted to hear your voice,” Jason coos, saccharine, clearly pleased with Tim’s irritation. He sounds short of breath. Maybe Jason is out in the field somewhere, hurt maybe, and calling for backup. Tim bites his lip. He shouldn't have jumped to conclusions. It’d be just like Jason to be difficult about something like calling for help, and it’s not like he’s got a better reason to call Tim. There’s a gasp over the line, and Tim thinks at first that it could be pain, but then Jason makes another small noise and Tim’s brain places the faint, rhythmic background noise he’d written off—

“Jason, are you—what are you _doing_?" He sounds scandalized even to his own ears, and he has to fight the urge to clear his throat. 

More laughter, but no response.

“Are you _masturbating?_ ” The words tumble out of his mouth, embarrassingly high-pitched, and the second it happens he’s cursing himself, wishing he could take it back. What if Jason isn’t, what if there’s some _logical_ explanation—

Jason cuts that train of thought right off, utterly shameless smirk audible in his voice. “Yeah, wanna see?” 

“Jason, I—I'm on patrol—” 

“No, you’re sitting on a gargoyle and listening to me whack off.” 

Well, not _on_ a gargoyle. “Jason, this frequency is for urgent—”

“Can’t think of anything more urgent than my boner, kid.” 

“Jason—” 

“Oh, yeah, say my name again,” Jason mocks, breathy. And then it turns genuine, “Ohhhhh fuck—” 

“I—”

" _Tim,_ " Jason moans, and with that Tim’s protest dies in his throat, an embarrassingly pathetic last stand. Jason’s panting, and with those tiny sounds, Tim can almost see it—Jason sprawled out on his bed, jeans around his ankles, throwing his head back and gasping for breath, hips moving steadily, his hand wrapped around his flushed cock, shiny with precome.

Tim’s always had a vivid imagination.

“C’mon, Timmy,” Jason’s saying. “Talk to me.” 

Tim could just. Disconnect. He will. Any second now. 

“I—what do you want me to say,” Tim croaks, eyes falling shut under the cowl. Jason makes a triumphant noise in his ear. Tim can't believe he’s doing this. His throat is suddenly dry; he’s clenching and unclenching his hands. He’s still got the image of Jason fucking his own hand seared onto his eyelids. 

“Awww, first timer?” Jason’s condescension rankles; Tim automatically starts to protest, even though it's true, but Jason barrels right over him. “Gimme anything. Anything at all. You ever think about this before? ’Bout me?” 

The first time Tim had ever deliberately fantasized while he touched himself, it had been to thoughts of Jason. Memories of him flying. His legs. His smile. 

“Think about me now,” Jason demands. It cuts through the reverie sharply, momentarily speaking through the Jason of Tim’s memory, a bizarre image of Robin growling like the Red Hood. The fantasy shatters. Jason’s demand shakes Tim all over, forcing a small noise out of his throat. Encouraged, Jason continues. “Think about me...think about my hands on your hips. Undoing the catches on your tunic, slipping my hands under it, feeling you there—” 

It’s alarmingly easy to picture, Jason’s voice painting it vibrantly for Tim. Jason’s hands would be huge, hot and callused, big enough to cover Tim’s whole hips, fingers spread wide, almost reaching the center of his back. His breath is catching. He wonders suddenly if Jason’s listening for it, if he’s as desperate for the tiny noises as Tim is. He shivers. He’s heating up all over.

Another burst of panic interrupts the haze of lust and seizes Tim—what if someone’s listening in? What if someone dropped by and found him like this? Bruce? Dick? _Cass_ , who'd know who he was talking to and exactly what he was thinking—

“I’d strip you,” Jason says, overriding Tim's brain’s last-ditch attempt at reason. Jason continues, “I’d do it slow, ’cause I'm an ass like that. I’d tease you till you were shaking in my arms, buck fuckin’ naked and squirming for me.” 

Tim swallows. He's squirming in his perch on the wall, not quite willing to even press a palm to his crotch to relieve the pressure. It’s too easy to imagine.

“Fuck, I wanna—you’re so small,” Jason says. A tiny, buried part of Tim wants to object; the rest is enthralled, absorbed in Jason’s fantasy. “I could pick you up, move you where I wanted, wherever I wanted, carrying you with your legs up around my waist, my hands on your ass—” and that’s too easy to see, too easy to imagine himself up in Jason’s huge, strong arms. Tim’s jock is astoundingly uncomfortable right now, and Jason’s showing no signs of slowing down. “You’d like that, wouldn't you, kid? If I picked up and shoved you against the wall and _fucked_ you there—” 

Jason cuts himself off with a growl that bleeds into a moan and a resurgence in panting and needy little noises. Tim swallows. He suddenly needs to know what Jason looks like, now, what he's doing. If he’d just sped up, started humping his hand— “Can you,” Tim starts. Swallows. Starts again. “Tell me how you’re—” 

“Ngh, fuck, yeah, of course,” Jason moans. “I’m home, on the bed. Uh, mattress. Jeans down, open out of the way. Shirt’s off, lost it somewhere, I’m. Fuck, I’m so fucking hard, Tim. I want you, I want your _mouth,_ I, shit—” 

“I’d suck you,” Tim blurts, accidental and overearnest, startled into temporary boldness by how bad he suddenly wants to, his mouth watering with the phantom weight of Jason’s dick in his mouth. The second the words are out, Tim wants Gotham to swallow him up, wants to die, wants to snatch the words back out of the air, but Jason’s moaning like it’s the best thing he's ever heard. 

“God, yes, I’d fucking love it,” Jason promises, and Tim flushes so hard he gets dizzy and has to steady himself with a hand on the gargoyle. “You just. You'd suck me down, you’d love it as much as I would, wouldn’t you? My hands in your hair, on your cheek, shit, you’d probably let me come on your face, wouldn’t you? And you’d love that too, being marked with it, and you’d love it when I licked it right back off, fuck, Tim.” 

Of course Tim would let him. He’d close his eyes and let his mouth fall open so he could taste, let drops of come paint his cheek. “Yes,” Tim breathes, another accidental admission that makes him choke.

And Jason moans. “Tim—fuck—” and he’s back to moaning, not like the halting ones from earlier, interrupted by cursing and dirty talk, but loud, shameless yowling.

Tim holds his breath, listening, his heartbeat resounding thrums like thunder in his ears, as the sounds from what was presumably Jason’s noisy orgasm peak and melt, thawing into heavy panting. A part of him can't believe it, protests that Jason couldn’t possibly have come undone from one little word out of Tim’s mouth. The rest of him is floundering, wondering if he should say something, or maybe disconnect completely without a word, as well as completely and deliberately ignoring his throbbing dick jammed up against his jock.

“Fuuuuuck,” Jason groans, smug, slaked, and satisfied. “I needed that.” 

Tim doesn’t know what to say. He keeps freezing with his hand halfway up to the communicator in his ear. He could disconnect now that Jason’s finished, and wrap up his patrol. He could forget the whole thing ever happened, or at least strike it from his memory for long enough to get home and turn out the lights and let the memory of Jason’s noises swallow him whole again—

“So,” Jason says, bluntly butting into Tim’s train of thought once again. “Have you stuck your hand down your tights yet or are you still trapped in your jock like a good little boy?” 

Tim bites his lip. “I,” he starts. It's shaky; he doesn’t even know how he was _planning_ to finish that sentence. “I’m fine”? “It's none of your business”? “I’m so turned on that I'm lightheaded”? Each new thought seems more ludicrous than the last.

Jason groans, this time in exasperation. “Live a little, kid. No one’s gonna know if you whip it out to feel which way the wind is blowing, you know?” Tim chokes. Jason laughs, less meanly than he could have, and continues, “Well, maybe your gargoyle friends would, but they won’t tell anyone.” 

Tim's whole body is wired, thrumming with electricity. There’s still the staticky echo in the back of his head begging him to think about what he’s doing, but it’s dulled by desperation. His dick is hard enough that it’s painful, that he can feel his pulse in it. It’s not fair how bad he wants to take Jason’s advice. “I can’t just—” 

“C’mon,” Jason says softly. 

Tim swallows. His throat’s so dry that it’s audible, a hollow click. 

The first touch of his palm against his crotch, just a little light pressure, makes him gasp, even though through layers of armor it’s nothing like friction. Jason makes a delighted noise in Tim's ear, practically crowing in triumph that he got Tim to grope himself. 

“That’s right, kiddo. Hey, d’you have your hand down your tights or did you shove them off?” Jason asks. Tim winces. Neither, yet. But it’s not like he can say that, but he doesn't know how to lie about _this_ —

It doesn’t seem to matter, because Jason wasn’t waiting for an answer. “Bet it’s a big relief.” It would be, if Tim had actually gotten some contact. He bites his lip, shucks his glove, and shoves his tights and cup down out of the way. 

The cold is a shock that sends another wave of _oh my god public masturbation this is illegal what if someone sees_ through Tim’s brain, but it doesn’t stop his dick from practically singing with newfound freedom. He has to swallow down a groan of relief.

And Jason’s still talking. “Hey, Timmy, do noises do it for you? I’d heard you were a bit of a voyeur, but I don’t know too much else. Maybe I should get ahold of a video feed for you next time. What do you think?” 

Tim wraps his hand around his dick. His hips jerk into it, ass ramming back against the hard stone ledge. Jason would grin at Tim through the camera, put on a show; arch his back, pose, over the top dramatics until it becomes genuine and need takes over. No subtlety, no holds barred. A whimper flutters in Tim's throat, against his will. Jason swallows, audible over the line.

“Yeah,” Jason says, hoarse. “God, you don't know how hot you sound right now.” A staticky huff of breath. “Think I might get hard again, just listening. ‘Course, if you wanted, you could pop on over and help me take care of it...” 

Tim shudders, shockwaves of warmth spreading through his body. The image grabs him. Jason crushing Tim against him. Holding him there and rubbing off against him, using him, or—holding him down, both of Tim's wrists in one of Jason’s huge hands—

“Fuck, you have _no_ idea how much I want to do to you,” Jason growls. Tim gasps. Heat floods him, making him shake. 

“Tell me,” he whispers. 

Jason groans, long and low. “Shit, kid. I want to fuck you until you scream my name. I was singing your mouth's praises, but your tight little ass, I bet it's a perfect fucking handful.” 

Tim has to steady himself with his free hand, leaning back against the wall. His breathing’s going wild, ripping out of him in shallow pants. He's squirming up into his hand, so good and at the same time not nearly enough. He wants Jason there, Jason to take over and say this with his eyes hot and promising and staring into Tim’s own.

“I wanna cover your neck with bite marks," Jason says. “Press you up against the wall, your legs around my waist, and go at it. Mark you right up. Your little whimpers right in my ear.”

Tim is well past whimpers into whines, now, small hitches of desperate noise on the tail end of each breath. A tiny voice in his mind wonders if Jason wants to add to the scar he already left. Tim moans.

“Fuck, that’s hot. Shit, I’d probably have to throw you down on the bed. We wouldn’t be able to wait. Hard and fast and desperate. I’d be all over you, pressing you down into the mattress when you squirmed back against me...fuck.” 

Tim is fucking his fist, now, thrusting his hips up in time with it. He’s not even registering the discomfort of the stone ledge or the cold, he’s so far gone. His face is flaming—his blush has spread down to his chest, he’s sure; his head is thrown back, and he can't for the life of him catch his breath. He must be moaning, but he can't hear it over the thunder of his own heartbeat in his ears and the feeling of white-hot sparks building at the base of his spine. 

“Fuck, Tim,” Jason says in his ear, and Tim’s coming hard into his fist. 

For a long moment, there’s nothing but their panting, breathing in tandem, Tim’s mind struggling to get back into working order like a turtle trying to flip back to right-side-up. Then Jason’s chuckling, distorted a little by static of the line, and Tim swallows and uses a disinfecting wipe to clean himself off, and lifts his hips enough to pull his jock and tights back up. 

He can't believe he just _did_ that. 

And what now? What do you even say after your estranged not-brother talks you through the best orgasm of your life? Anything other than “I’m glad you’re not trying to kill me anymore,” probably. 

“I—” Tim starts, at the same time Jason says, “So—” 

There’s an awkward huff of a laugh from Jason. Tim finds himself smiling at nothing. “You first,” Tim says. 

“I was just gonna say ‘was it good for you,’” Jason says, saturating his tone with irony. 

Tim groans, but he’s still smiling. “So it’s cliche bingo,” he says. “Have you gone for the post-coital cigarette yet, then?” 

There’s a distinctly guilty pause. “No?” Jason tries. Tim has to laugh. 

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. So...” Jason pauses. In the background, there’s a clicking noise from what must be Jason’s lighter. “You wanna maybe—god, I sound like a loser.” 

“You’re doing okay,” Tim says. It comes out breathier than he’d like, proof of the hummingbird fluttering of his heart, and he swallows. He feels like such a teenager. 

“Well. Just that we could do this again sometime,” Jason says. “Maybe even face to face. If you wanted.” 

Tim takes a deep breath. “I’d like that,” he says quietly. He has to hide his grin against his shoulder. 

“Okay! Okay. Good,” Jason says, poorly-hidden relief coloring his tone. “See you around, then, Birdboy.” 

Jason disconnects without waiting for Tim’s reply. Tim’s grateful; it probably would have been pathetic floundering. He realizes abruptly that he's still holding the disinfecting wipe he’d cleaned himself up with, and almost drops it in the rush to get it tucked into an evidence bag so he can safely dispose of it later.

A part of Tim still can’t believe what just happened. Bafflement is settling in, too, a layered chorus of “why me”s and “what does it mean”s fluttering in his mind and clamoring for attention. There’s no way he won’t analyze this to death later. But he can put that off until for now; he has a job to do, and he's been neglecting it. He flushes. Neglecting—that’s one way to put it. 

Tim hoists himself up onto his feet, getting his grappling hook ready. For a few hours, he’ll block this out and focus. He can figure out what it means later.

**Author's Note:**

> Jason eventually found his shirt. It was in the refrigerator.


End file.
